


well you done done me and you bet i felt it

by MistressKat, pushkin666



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bandom - Freeform, Cliche, First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-19
Updated: 2010-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-06 11:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/pseuds/pushkin666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick and Pete angst and attempt to talk about their feelings. With varying success. Then there's some kissing. The end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well you done done me and you bet i felt it

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is both unashamedly clichéd and unashamedly fluffy, but we had so much fun writing it that we don't really care. Many thanks to [megyal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal) for a first-grade beta. Fic title comes from I'm yours by Jason Mraz, which features on our personal Patrick/Pete "omg their love is so true!!" soundtrack. All feedback including concrit is welcome.
> 
> Patrick's pov: MistressKat  
> Pete's pov: pushkin666

Pete shows up around ten thirty on a Saturday night, leaning into the doorbell while Patrick trips his way through the house to get to the door.

"You fucker," he says and steps back so Pete can come in.

"Good to see you too, dear." Pete ambles past, heading straight for the couch. He looks tired and too skinny. He hasn't called for two weeks.

Patrick feels his hands curl into fists around empty air and he's not sure whether to use them to punch Pete's lights out or pull him into a hug.

"You little _fucker_," he repeats for emphasis. "You want a sandwich?"

 

***

 

Pete sits down carefully on the couch. He is bone weary, his body aching all over as though he has the flu. He rubs his hand over his eyes and pulls the hoodie around himself.

The last two weeks have been both physically and mentally exhausting and although he automatically asked the driver to take him to Patrick's he wonders how good an idea that was.

Patrick will no doubt want answers, an explanation of Pete's two week silence and Pete's not sure whether or not he will be able to provide one that Patrick will accept.

He listens to Patrick moving around in the kitchen, putting food together, something for Pete to eat. He hopes he will be able to get it down without being sick.

He looks up as Patrick sits down next to him on the couch, placing a plate of sandwiches between them. He stomach rumbles protesting hunger and he reaches for one, taking care not to touch Patrick.

***

 

The laptop hums quietly on the armrest, the screen saver kicking in after a while. Patrick had been working. Well, _trying_ to work. He has several tracks from one of Pete's latest finds sitting on his hard drive. The band is raw but full of potential, and Patrick knows it only takes a nudge in the right direction for them to achieve it.

Pete sent music to him just before his trip. Nothing unusual in the email; _just work your magic, Pattycakes_ on the subject line and _talk to you later_ lower down.

Except Pete_ hadn't_ talked to him. No phone calls, no texts, emails or fucking smoke signals. Nothing. Patrick's own attempts at getting in touch had been met with automated voicemail and silence.

The bread tastes like cardboard in his mouth and Patrick pushes the rest of sandwiches in Pete's direction. He wants to ask questions and demand answers. He wants to wind his hands into the soft material of Pete's hoodie and pull it off him. He wants to know what's going on, why Pete is wearing this particular hoodie, the one that tends to come out only in times of crisis. Pete is nothing but obvious about his coping strategies and defence mechanisms.

"You haven't been eating," he says instead. Maybe Pete will tell him without prodding. It's unlikely, but he did come over.

 

***

 

Pete's hand steals out and he takes another sandwich. He closes his eyes and chews contentedly. His stomach is no longer roiling quite so hard and he relaxes slightly, enjoying the sharp saltiness of the feta against the walnut bread.

He wonders whether Patrick has looked at Pete's blogs at all over the last couple of weeks. He finds solace in his blogs, they're a place for his thoughts and words to spill out but his mind has been so overloaded that he knows his entries haven't made sense even to him. He wonders whether they've made sense to Patrick; whether he's been worried about the words leaking out.

He watches Patrick from the corner of his eye. Patrick's shoulders are slumped and his voice carries a note of exhaustion. Pete feels a pang of guilt as he realises he's partly, if not wholly, responsible for the way that Patrick looks, the expression in his eyes.

He wants to turn to Patrick and burrow into his warmth, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on Patrick's chest. He wants to surround himself with Patrick and just sleep; something he's not been able to do properly for a while. He can't remember the last time he slept a full night through, certainly not without medication of some form. He wants to hear the sound of Patrick's heartbeat echoing in his ears, but he knows he can't. It's too risky. He doesn't think he can even allow Patrick to touch him, doesn't know how he'll react to the feel of Patrick's skin against his own.

Instead, he takes another sandwich and tries to ignore the way that Patrick's back is stiffening as he waits for Pete to say something ... anything.

 

***

 

Patrick lets the silence stretch, watching Pete move restlessly, his fingers idly tapping at the keyboard – nothing too involved, he knows better than to mess with Patrick's laptop.

Finally Patrick snatches the empty plate, getting up from the sofa. The kitchen is a mess, just like the man sitting in his living room and for a while he just leans on the counter, thinking about how he doesn't know where to start sorting out either. The thing is, while he can leave the kitchen for a week without so much as a second thought, he can't ignore Pete as easily. Or at all.

"Ryan called earlier." Pete's voice drifts in from the doorway.

Patrick watches his own hands flex on the table, fingernails scratching the worktop. He bangs some dishes around aimlessly, buying time. "Oh yeah?" Non-committal. If this is about Ryan… "How's the tour in Europe going?"

Patrick doesn't really care how the Panic's tour is going. Well, he does, of course he does, they're good guys, friends even, but—

"It's going well. Ryan's mad at Brendon though." Pete sounds amused, not concerned, and Patrick sighs silently. It means that this is nothing more than idle chit chat, a diversion tactic. Whatever is bothering Pete, has nothing to do with Ryan.

That only leaves about fifty other people that could have hurt him without realising it. Patrick rubs his face tiredly and walks back to the living room.

"Oh yeah, what about?" He slumps down, folding one leg under him, body turned toward Pete. There's nothing out of the ordinary about how they're sitting, knees touching slightly, their clothes brushing against each other at every inhale.

And yet Patrick can actually see Pete tense up. After a few seconds he shifts away, mock-casual. It would be imperceptible, but Patrick is paying attention and it's definitely there.

 

***

 

Pete smiles at Patrick. "Apparently, Brendon decided to tell their fans that he liked boys as well as girls..."

Patrick stares at him. "He what?" he says. He looks shocked although Pete knows full well that Patrick thinks that fifty percent of Panic is not quite sane. As far as Patrick is concerned the only 'normal' ones in the band are Spencer and Jon.

Pete stretches his feet out in front of himself. "Apparently at their latest gig..." He pauses for moment remembering what it was Ryan had told him. "Brendon announced to the audience that he was single, looking for sex and didn't mind whether it was with girls or boys."

Patrick shakes his head. "Idiot."

"Yeah well, you can also imagine how quickly that got posted on the internet."

Patrick shifts his body so he's leaning more towards him. Pete tries not to pull back too obviously, just moving slightly away from Patrick.

"So, how were the last two weeks?" Patrick asks. "Did you find anybody worth looking into?"

Pete relaxes a little hoping that he'll be able to pull Patrick's mind away from why he's really here, why he hasn't called. Get him interested in the bands he'd seen. Of course if Patrick came along once in a while... and he just can't stop himself from saying something, voicing what he's been feeling for a while now: the resentment that Patrick won't come along with him anymore. Somewhere along the line Patrick started staying behind and he doesn't know why or when this became the norm, that he leaves Patrick behind.

He glares at Patrick. "You know, if you actually came with me once in a while, you might not need to ask. Why don't you ever come along? You're always too busy, always doing something else. You know I can't actually remember the last time you came to check out any of the bands." His body tenses and his voice begins to rise as truths start to flood out, truths that he doesn't want to admit, neither to himself or Patrick.

 

***

 

"Whoa, _what?"_ Patrick blinks several times rapidly. He's used to Pete's mood swings but this is pretty fast even for him; from practically uncommunicative to a full-blown tantrum in less than two minutes.

"You heard me," Pete says, crossing his arms petulantly. "You never come with me anymore."

"What would I even do there, trailing uselessly after you from one indie hipster underground club to another? Pete, you know that's not my scene, it's never been."

This is ridiculous. They have a clear division of labor here, or so Patrick thought; Pete finds bands with potential, Patrick nurtures that potential until it blooms hit records and albums that people pay money to listen to.

He reaches over, shaking Pete's shoulder lightly. "I'd stick out like a sore thumb," he says, forcing himself to chuckle. "Besides, it's not my attention all these fledging bands are clamouring for, it's not me they come to meet, to be seen by."

Pete looks over, something bitter and unreadable in his eyes, and shrugs Patrick's hand off. "Jesus, you're stupid."

That stings. More than Patrick cares to admit.

"Just because you don't want to make time for us. Always too busy—"

And fuck, that's _it._ Patrick feels his temper flaring, doesn't even bother holding it back. "Yeah, Pete. Busy with _your bands!_ Busy with songs by people I don't even know but that you send me anyway!"

He gets up, rounding on Pete, practically standing over him, arms waving. "Don't talk to me about busy! You haven't called or emailed for _two fucking weeks!_ What's up with that?"

Pete's eyes cut to the side. "This was a mistake," he says. "I should go." He makes to leave.

"Oh no you don't," Patrick snaps. He catches Pete by the arm just as he's trying to push past.

 

***

 

Pete lets out a huff of air as he's pushed back onto the sofa. He glares at Patrick who's standing over him. This was a stupid idea and he knows he shouldn't have come over, should just have gone straight home. The last thing he needs is to argue with Patrick.

"Fuck this. I'm leaving." He spits the words out at Patrick.

He tries to stand up, only to have his arms grabbed by Patrick; Patrick's fingers digging into his flesh sharply. He brings his hands up trying to push Patrick's hands away and off him.

"The fuck you are," Patrick says. Pete tries to struggle, to get up and past him, but Patrick is a solid weight against him. It's not helped of course by the lack of food and sleep over the last couple of weeks.

Finally he subsides, too exhausted to fight anymore. Besides, from the way Patrick is glaring at him he's probably going to punch him if he carries on like this. When Patrick is really angry he has a habit of hitting first and asking questions after.

"Fine," he says and lets himself be pushed back onto the sofa again. He's not going to talk though. He doesn't care. Patrick can keep him here, stop him from leaving, but Pete's not going to tell him what's going on. Maybe if he sulks long enough Patrick will stop asking questions.

Pete drops his head, looking down at his hands. He can feel Patrick's intense stare as his friend sits down next to him. Thankfully Patrick isn't trying to touch him this time.

 

***

"Pete…" Patrick takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He's still mad, not to mention hurt, but something is clearly going on besides Pete being a prick. "Talk to me."

If possible Pete huddles even further into his hoodie.

"What, you're just going to sit there all night not saying a word?" Patrick slumps back onto the sofa, his shoulder bumping against Pete's.

Pete moves away and Patrick tells himself that it doesn't mean anything, that Pete is simply shifting positions.

"Come on, Pete. Usually I can't shut you up."

Patrick fixes his eyes on Pete's profile. "If you don't tell me, I'm just going to start guessing."

Silence. Pete fidgets with his sleeves, an obstinate look on his face.

"Have it your way then," Patrick says. "Let's see… It's not your family, because mine would've called me already. Our moms apparently talk more often than we do nowadays." And yep, still bitter about that. _Two fucking weeks_ without— Okay, okay, he can't get distracted now.

Patrick clasps his hands together tightly and ploughs on. "And it can't be business related because if it was our band, I would've been contacted before you and if it was any of the bands on your label you would've bitched about it loud and long instead clamming up."

He's watching Pete closely but so far there's no reaction; his breathing is even and the tight-lipped expression of annoyance doesn't slip.

"Right. So." And this is where it gets tricky. Because despite knowing practically everything there is to know about each other's relationships, they don't really discuss them. Pete's clothing choice aside, they're not actually girls.

"Is it… Did Jeanae call again?"

Pete actually snorts at that.

"Okay, not her." Patrick hesitates, but only for a few seconds. It's a long shot, but… "Mikey?"

Nothing but a sardonic twist of lips. Patrick is running out of options here. Well, at least people he thought were options. _"Ryan?"_

Pete rolls his eyes. Patrick is two seconds from reaching over and shaking him until truths start falling out like ripe apples.

"Well who then? You show up out of the blue after two weeks, look like death warmed over, and refuse to tell me what's wrong. I mean, does your family even know you're back? Does Ashlee? Have you even—?"

And there it is, what Patrick's been looking for: a flinch. Subtle and aborted, but not quickly enough.

_"Ashlee?"_ Patrick asks, slowly, because this is something he hasn't even considered, not when she has been the cause of so many of Pete's smiles over the last six months. "Something happened with Ashlee?"

Pete drops his head into his hands, his whole body sagging with relief and resignation. "Yeah," his voice is muffled and he rubs his hands tiredly over his face. "Yeah, you could say that."

"You guys fighting?" Patrick is honestly surprised. "She… What, she broke it off with you?"

Pete's laugh is downright snide. "No," he says. "I did."

 

***

Trust Patrick. Sometimes he hates the years that Patrick has known him. That Patrick is able to read him so very well, although he is clearly shocked at Pete's answer.

The fact that Ashlee came at the end of the list says it all really. Patrick would never have imagined that Ashlee and he would break up. He knows that Patrick likes Ashlee a lot, is always happy to see her, and hasn't ever complained about her taking up Pete's time.

Whenever they've been together it's been pretty obvious how she feels about him and how he feels about her as well. Although they have split up he loves Ashlee, he really does. Loves being with her. But it's not enough.

Pete closes his eyes. He's so tired. Doesn't want this conversation with Patrick, just wants to curl up on Patrick's soft sofa, his head in Patrick's lap and listen to Patrick's voice as he sings him to sleep – something Patrick has done for him on many an occasion over the years when he'd been too hyped up, too stressed to sleep. But he just daren't, he can't risk Patrick touching him.

God, he tried but she can never really be what he wants. What he wants... His mind shies away from that. He knows; has known for years that if he settles for someone that person will always be second, third best to... to Patrick, some small voice in his mind whispers. Of them all, Ashlee has probably come closest to stilling that voice of want that's always there at the back of his mind. For that reason alone more than anything he had to end it. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

_"Bitch."_ Patrick's voice is hard, the sound of it breaking the thick silence. "How could she do this to you, after everything? That _little bitch." _

He tenses at Patrick's words, knowing that Patrick is trying to show support, that he doesn't really mean what he's saying. Patrick is simply leaping to his defence, his actions and words always honest when it comes to Pete.

Still, Pete can't allow him to speak badly of Ashlee. After all, none of this is her fault. Patrick didn't see her reaction to Pete's news; her tears and the way her face crumpled up. Had Patrick seen her, he wouldn't be speaking like this, calling her names.

Pete lifts his head and glares at his friend. "Don't you dare ..." his voice is harsh.

"She's done nothing wrong. It was me, okay. I broke it off." He looks away trying to avoid Patrick's eyes before dropping his head back in his hands. He can't do this, can't listen to Patrick denigrating her.

"Pete." Patrick's hand touches his shoulder. He shrugs away from Patrick, panicked at Patrick's closeness. He tries to move away from Patrick, but there's nowhere left to go on the sofa and from the look on Patrick's face he knows Patrick is going to try and pull him into his arms, to try and console him with his touch and Pete just can't.

"Don't ..."

Patrick looks confused. "Pete, what?" He puts his hand on Pete's arm again.

"Just don't. Just stop touching me okay." He can hear his voice beginning to rise as he tries to get away from Patrick but not look too obvious about it. "Just don't touch me okay. I don't want you touching me."

"What? What do you mean, don't touch you?" The hurt is clear in Patrick's voice. "Pete..." He bends down, trying to see Pete's face.

"I just want to give you a hug, Pete. That's all. You don't normally mind."

"Well I don't want you hugging me, okay Patrick." He tries to harden his voice. "I just want you to leave me alone."

Pete keeps his head down, knowing that Patrick is staring at him. He tries to will Patrick to sit back, to let it be but he knows that that's not going to happen. He has a sinking feeling that Patrick is going to push it, that this one time Pete won't be allowed to get away with shutting him down.

The silence drags on and although his head is down Patrick is still staring at him. Pete knows that Patrick is waiting for him to break, to crawl into his lap, and put his arms around him as he normally would, but he just can't.

After what seems to be an age Patrick pushes up from the sofa.

"Fine," he says. His voice is tight with anger.

"If that's how you want to play it we'll pretend we never had this conversation shall we? Let's play the Pete Wentz Displacement Game yet again. What a change that will be!" He turns away, walks over toward the kitchen. "Do you want a drink?"

 

***

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ His hands are shaking too much to open the fucking bottle and Patrick sets it down quickly. He lets the glass stutter against the counter top, making noise and buying time.

His breathing is coming in shallow gasps and he's inexplicably furious, more than he should be. Hurt too, but he pushes that one down, letting the anger cover up the other, more confusing emotions.

Simpler that way.

Fucking _Pete Wentz_ and his fucking _soap opera_ of a personal life that Patrick gets drawn into again and again. Years of watching Pete crawl to him like a kicked dog, show up at his door in the middle of the night, bedraggled and beaten down, expecting Patrick to make everything better like some sort of a magician.

And does he mind, does he ever deny Pete anything? Oh he complains plenty, but… No, if Patrick is honest with himself – and he tries to be, you don't survive long in this business otherwise – he has to admit that he _doesn't_ mind it, likes it even.

It's an amazing thing; to be the one person Pete comes to when the chips are down, the only one he trusts with his heart…

Yeah. Patrick swallows down the bitter chuckle that threatens to escape. And what does he do? Fixes it so that Pete can go and get it broken all over again.

Except now Pete isn't even letting him do that.

Patrick doesn't understand, can't wrap his mind around Pete breaking up with Ashlee when it had been going so well; all matching sunglasses and silly jokes and Patrick thinking he'd never had to open his door again to find Pete standing on the front steps with downcast eyes and a brittle smile.

But how can he help when Pete doesn't tell him what's really wrong? Something _must_ have happened; people don't just break up for no good reason.

"I… Patrick. There's nothing to tell. There's… Just leave it. Please." Pete's voice comes from the living room, barely audible.

Patrick hadn't realised he'd said it aloud, but he must have done. Pete's non-answer only makes him grit his teeth harder. He gropes the cupboard blindly, banging two glasses onto the table with more force than necessary. The whiskey bottle mocks him silently. Patrick doesn't even know what the fuck he's doing with it. He doesn't drink; _they_ don't drink, not really. The bottle is only there for guests, not opened since the last time Gabe was over.

_"Leave it._ Right." Patrick spits the words out, squeezing the bottle in one hand, not even pretending to be pouring it out anymore. He only came to the kitchen because if he hadn't he probably would have punched Pete right on his miserable face.

_"'Leave it, Patrick. Don't ask questions, Patrick. Don't touch me, Patrick.'"_His voice has taken on a vicious mocking lilt as he throws Pete's words back at him.

"You don't want to talk to me and now you apparently can't even stand to have me touch you. So tell me, Pete. What the _fuck_ did you come here for then?"

There's no answer but Patrick is past needing one. "Every single time, Pete! Every girl who cheated on you, every guy who was too stupid to hold on to a good thing, every nasty break-up, every fucking relationship that I knew was doomed from the start!"

He takes big gulping breaths, shouting at the empty room because it's easier than shouting at Pete. "And you know what? I'm _sick._ Sick and tired of watching you sabotage your own life and then bring me the pieces like some sort of twisted offering. I'm not a fucking half-way house where you can just come and expect to be accommodated and understood without an explanation!"

He brushes the tumblers to the floor with an angry swipe of his arm, the bright jingle of breaking glass punctuating his screamed: "Why are you even here, Pete?_Why?"_ Such a pointless, hollow question.

"Why don't _you_ just 'leave it', Pete? There's clearly nothing here you want, so _just leave!"_ The bottle in his hand is heavy and solid and Patrick hurls it at the wall where it shatters with a muted sound like a gunshot through a pillow. The expensive whiskey dribbles down, pooling on the dirty floor, and the stench of it makes him want to retch.

He turns on his heels, stalks out of the kitchen, through the living room. Pete is standing by the sofa, like a puppet frozen mid-play, one hand raised, eyes wide and shocked. Patrick doesn't look at him, doesn't want to.

He takes the stairs two at the time, wrenches his bedroom door open and slams it shut behind him. A part of him knows exactly how childish he's being, but Patrick ignores it. There's a certain irony about throwing the best teenage tantrum of his life in his mid-twenties.

The inside of his bedroom is dark and quiet, dirty clothes strewn over the floor, curtains still drawn. Patrick slumps onto the bed, not bothering to switch on the lights and stares at the wall, unseeing. His mind is reeling but there seems to be no content to his thoughts, just buzzing static like a radio turned between stations.

Patrick bites his lips and waits for the sound of front door closing.

 

***

Pete stares in shock as Patrick storms past, ignoring him. He hasn't seen Patrick this angry in a very long time. The last time was because of Pete as well. He seems to have the ability to infuriate Patrick past caring.

A door on the floor above slams with a resounding bang. Patrick's bedroom door no doubt. Over the years Pete has seen the full range of Patrick's temper outbursts, how he reacts, and this one sits up there at the top of the seismic scale.

Pete knows that at some point, when Patrick has calmed enough not to want to throw punches, he'll head for his music room. But not just yet. Pete's only ever known Patrick once to be so angry that he trashed his music room. Since then Patrick has steered well clear of everything, preferring to be away from the focus of his anger and his music, until he's calmed enough that he won't destroy anything.

And Patrick was wrong to say that there's nothing here that Pete wants. That's the problem.

He sighs. Patrick has told him to leave and he'll be expecting Pete to do just that. What kind of a friend does it make him if that's how Patrick views him? He supposes, with an inward grimace, that he's very good at running away. Not this time though. Patrick is right; he's selfish, always dumping his personal crap on Patrick and then effectively rejecting him. If he doesn't sort this out now who knows what damage will remain. One of these days Patrick will get sick of being Pete's support blanket.

Before Pete can talk himself out of it he's climbing the stairs.

He pauses outside Patrick's bedroom and then he reaches down and opens the door, twisting the handle. He carefully eases his body inside, shutting the door behind him. It's dark in the room and he reaches to the left, flicking the light switch on. Patrick keeps his lights set at half-dimmed and Pete takes a moment to allow his eyes to adjust.

Ragged breathing breaks the silence and Pete cautiously steps toward the bed, avoiding the clothes on the floor. Patrick sits still, watching Pete, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. His whole body is vibrating as he stares at Pete. In the pale light his eyes are glistening with tears.

Pete feels his heart clench. He's done this to Patrick, brought him to this state and he knows that he can't walk away; Patrick means more to him than anything.

"Patrick." His voice is hesitant. There's no response at first, Patrick is staring at something that Pete cannot see and then he looks up at him.

"What are you still doing here Pete? Normally, you'd have left by now."

"I ...umm." And now Pete's feeling wrong footed as though he shouldn't have stayed.

"What? Words left you all of a sudden? That's not like you, Pete. I mean, words are what define you, aren't they? Even when you're not talking to me you're writing in your blog, putting your thoughts and emotions out there for anybody to read but not me. No, with me you say nothing and then when it all falls apart, you run. Isn't that right, Pete?"

Patrick's words are bitter now, the tone hurtful and Pete cringes, realising now that Patrick has read his blogs whilst he was away, desperate to find out what was going on in Pete's life, no doubt wondering why Pete was avoiding him. This may well be the time that Patrick won't forgive him and he knows he needs to fix this.

"You were wrong you know." His voice is quiet next to Patrick's. "When you said there was nothing here for me. You're here."

Patrick's expression is incredulous. "Sure," he says. "As a relationship counsellor."

"No!" Pete wipes his hands on his jeans. He's nervous now. "Not as a relationship counsellor."

"Then what, Pete? Because that's what it seems like. What am I to you? Am I your friend, your best friend? Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like that at the moment. What am I...?" Patrick's voice cracks and he looks away from Pete.

"Patrick." He puts his hand out to touch Patrick's shoulder and Patrick jerks away.

"Don't, Pete. Just don't!"

Patrick's voice is strained and Pete stares down at him. It hurts to see Patrick like this; shoulders slumped, eyes down, voice broken. If anyone else were responsible for this he'd be after them in a second. But it's his fault Patrick is like this. Two people he's reduced to a similar state in a short period of time. First Ashlee and now Patrick. Maybe he should try and take the coward's way out again, Ativan and empty car lots beckoning at the corner of his mind.

It's tempting but as he looks down at Patrick he knows he can't do that to his friend again. Remembers what it did to Patrick last time and he failed then. Were he to succeed he doesn't know what it would do to those who know him, his friends, family ... Patrick.

Another option is to go, to leave Patrick like this, upset and angry. To try and pretend this night was just another of their fights, to be forgotten as quickly as it started.

There is of course a third option. He could tell Patrick how he feels. He swallows. What could be the worst thing that happened? The band splitting, losing Patrick as a friend. But Pete knows if this carries on the way it is doing that might happen anyway. He digs his nails into the palm of his hands.

"Patrick. Look at me, please." His voice is entreating.

Patrick's head comes up and he stares at Pete.

"What Pete?" He sounds tired rather than curious.

Pete shuffles uncomfortably. "There's something I need to tell you," he says. "Something I should have told you a long time ago. It's why I broke up with Ashlee." He can hear the words coming faster as they try to leave his mouth, finally released.

Patrick continues to stare up at him, saying nothing.

"Well, you know ... you know I'm not completely straight, don't you?"

Patrick's bark of laughter echoes through the room. "Yeah Pete," he says. "I know you're not 'completely straight'."

Pete continues before he can bottle it. "There's someone else, always has been. That's why my other relationships didn't last."

Patrick's expression doesn't change and he's quiet, the silence becoming unnerving. Pete wants a reaction.

"Say something," he tells him.

"Like what? That I thought your relationships sucked because you constantly run away and don't deal with issues? Who is it and why is it such a big deal, other than how these things always are with you? " He sounds tired, almost disinterested in what Pete's saying.

Something in Pete snaps.

"It's you!" he says. "Okay. Is that what you wanted to know? I'm in love with my best friend, have been for years and the thing, the really good thing, the one that makes it all so fucking laughable and pathetic, is that you're straight." He's shouting now, the words like enemies falling from his mouth and his body shakes along with them, knowing that finally it's done and he must deal with the consequences.

 

***

 

Patrick sits very still. There's a distant humming in his ears, like a church choir on Easter Sunday. He's pretty sure it's the sound of his mind taking a temporary leave of absence.

Patrick stares at Pete's bowed head, the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders and none of it makes any sense. He tries to form a coherent thought but something huge and fragile gets in the way. It feels mostly like coming down with flu, and a little like hope.

It takes a while for Patrick's brain and mouth to reconnect and when his incredulous "What?" comes out, it's embarrassingly breathy and weak.

Somewhere along the edges, hysterical laughter is lurking like a thief in the night. Patrick pushes it firmly down, getting to his feet. Pete backs away, huddling himself on the corner of the bed while Patrick paces the floor, waving his hands in frustration. "I mean… _What?"_

Pete's face is a picture of misery, something dark and defiant in his eyes. "You heard me!" he snaps.

"I'm in love with you. Have been since like two minutes after I first met you. But you're my best friend. And straight. And now you probably hate me and never want to speak to me again and _oh god_ I've ruined the band, haven't I?" Pete's voice is growing wilder and higher with every word.

"Joe and Andy are going to _ kill me!_ Screw that, _I'm _ going to kill me! How could I have been so stupid? Jesus _fucking_ Chri—"

Pete is working himself up to a full-blown panic attack and Patrick doesn't even know where to begin with all the wrongness falling out of Pete's too-wide, too-pretty mouth, so he just picks one and runs with it.

"I'm not straight. I'm…" He tilts the flat of his hand back and forth a couple of times illustratively. "I thought you knew."

"I mean..." Patrick slumps again the wall heavily. "How could you _not know?"_

Pete is gaping at him, mouth opening and closing unattractively. "I'm almost positive I would remember if I had walked in on you doing the nasty with another guy!"

"Honest to god, Pete. Not everyone's an exhibitionist like you." Patrick runs a weary hand over his face, smudging his glasses in the process. "Still, I can't believe you didn't know…"

"You never said anything!" And now Pete actually sounds hurt, like Patrick has deliberately been keeping secrets from him.

"I didn't think I had to!"

"I told _you!"_

"Yeah, actually… no." Patrick sighs. "You showed up to our third practice session with some twink-in-training in tow and this _grin_ on your face and that was it."

Pete blinks and makes a contemplative little _hunh _sound.

"I mean, _seriously,"_ Patrick continues. "What did you think Bob and I _did_ that summer we shared a flat?"

"… Play a lot of drums?"

Patrick barks a laugh and Pete smiles sheepishly.

"Well yeah, we did that too." For a short while the tension in the room dissipates and the two men grin at each other.

Then Pete's eyes narrow, his face tightening in expression Patrick has seen before but never been able to name. He knows better now.

Pete's "Who else?" is pure jealousy, bitter and mean.

Patrick is vaguely horrified by the thrill it sends coursing through him. He crosses his arms to hide his reaction.

"I'm not going to give you a list of everyone I've ever slept with just so you can go and write a scathing and badly spelled blog entry about them."

"I wouldn't," Pete huffs, but the shifty look in his eyes says otherwise.

They regard each other silently for a while. Pete's defiant expression is visibly wavering while Patrick tries and fails to ignore the metaphorical elephant sitting between them. When he starts to wonder if an elephant can make the familiar heart shape with its trunk, Patrick concedes that it's time to man up and say something.

"Erm." Patrick is one eloquent motherfucker.

_"Yeah?"_ Pete asks. Considering the multitude of words they've hurled at each other tonight, this is getting pretty pathetic.

Patrick tries again. He can feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "So, um, now that we've established that I'm not straight…"

"Yeah?" Pete says again, and there's no mistaking the cautious hope in his voice.

Patrick feels encouraged, although it does nothing to calm his frantic heartbeat. "You… What you said. About. About being in love with—"

Despite everything he can't quite finish the sentence. Patrick's pretty sure this isn't some horrible misunderstanding. That he didn't misinterpret Pete's words in a manner that's going to maybe break his heart if he lets it.

But pretty sure is not entirely sure. Patrick really needs to be sure here. He really needs _Pete_ to be sure.

"Yeah, yeah. _Patrick."_ Pete's nodding in an answer to a question Patrick hasn't even finished yet. He scoots right to the edge of the mattress, close enough that Patrick would only have to reach his hand to…

"Did you mean it? Did you mean what you said, Pete?" Patrick is holding himself very still against the wall. "Don't fuck with me. Not about this."

"God, no! I mean, yes! Patrick, I…" Pete huffs out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair while Patrick tries very hard not to pass out. "I mean no, I would never do that to you. And yes, yes I meant it. God, you have no fucking idea how much."

Pete looks up, eyes dark and Patrick, who has seen Pete broken, has seen him grieving and drunk with joy and every goddamn emotion in between, has never seen him _this_ open, _this_ vulnerable.

"I love you," Pete says. "I'm in love with you," he says and Patrick believes him.

It's like losing gravity. Suddenly there's room in his chest and air rushes in to fill the space where all his tightly locked secrets used to live. Patrick doubles over, gasping and laughing, his hand reaching blindly for Pete who takes it just like he's always done. Jesus Christ, they are _idiots._

"We are idiots!" Patrick tells him, wheezing. His face hurts from smiling and Pete actually looks worried, and if that isn't the most hilarious thing ever, Patrick doesn't know what is.

_"Idiots,"_ he repeats just as Pete starts to say something that could be a question or Patrick's name or, god forbid, an apology. Only they never find out because Patrick curls his fists into Pete's stupid stripy emo hoodie and crashes their mouths together, hard and bruising.

It's not perfect. Their teeth clink together a little painfully, Patrick's back is already killing him thanks to the awkward angle, and Pete takes a few precious seconds to blink through his shock and get with the program, but when he does…

_When he does._

Patrick can feel the exact moment Pete goes from thinking _can't have this_ to thinking _must have this now._ His mouth softens, lips parting under Patrick's and then they're _kissing,_ real and wet and greedy. Pete pulls at Patrick's clothes desperately, knocking his hat aside in the progress. Patrick makes a sound somewhere in the lower register as he straddles Pete's lap, pushing them both down onto the bed.

_"Oh fuck."_ Pete looks wrecked. His mouth looks like sin. Patrick swipes a tongue over Pete's bottom lip, making him whine. "Wait, wait. Are you saying? Patrick, are you—?"

"Yes._Yes._ So long, _god."_ Patrick is a metrosexual New Man. He is totally willing to discuss his feelings._ After_ the sex. There are priorities and having Pete naked and writhing is currently on top of the list.

"You mean we could have been doing this for_ years?"_ Pete asks, digging clever fingers into Patrick's ass for emphasis.

Patrick moans, grinding down and apparently that's answer enough.

"We are idiots," Pete says, grinning happily.

"Yeah," Patrick agrees. "We really are. Now can we please_ stop talking?" _He scrabbles for Pete's belt, all finesse forgotten

"Absolutely," Pete says and arches off the bed, meeting Patrick half-way.


End file.
